COVID Catastrophe: Week One Thoughts

Disjointed thoughts as Week One of this COVID Catastrophe comes to a close...

Flashback:

I’m sitting at my desk in my dimly lit classroom. It’s so early in the day that the sun isn’t even entirely bright in the sky yet, and the lamps strategically placed around the room are casting strange shadows across the ceiling. One junior boy is sprawled across the floor using his backpack as a pillow and a young lady is sitting in the desk nearby eating her salad for breakfast because ahem… “salad is for whenever.” I’m shoveling luke-warm oatmeal into my mouth with one hand and attempting to type with the other. The room is silent other than the occasional, “Oh my gosh look at this” that comes from the young lady’s mouth as she tosses her phone at the junior boy, or the subtle comment he makes back to her.The bell rings, they grumble goodbye to me, and the day continues.

Flashback:

I’m standing in the back of the room screaming, “Cue scene!” as four senior boys recite their modernized Hamlet performance in make-shift paper crowns. One boy enters the doorway wearing a princess gown and tiara, introducing himself as “Gertrude” and two of them break into song… because this scene of Shakespeare apparently needed to be put to music. The scene takes approximately three attempts because the laughter erupting from the audience (and teacher) make it entirely too difficult to focus. The performance ends with an explosion of applause and whistles.

Flashback:

Soft, subtle sniffles emerge from her face as she sits in the desk right in front of the room and stares at the wall. I ask her if she wants to talk, but she asks if it’s okay if she just “sits” for a minute. I hear her take several breaths before she abruptly turns around and asks if “all guys are this way.” The words fall out of her lips in a jumbled mess of tears and confusion as her heart breaks in little pieces right in front of me. She tells me things she probably has not told her parents, or perhaps even her best friend. She apologizes for being so upset. She asks if it’s okay if she gives me a hug, which I gladly permit, and then rushes to open the back closet door and fix her makeup in the mirror affixed to the back of it.

Flashback:

Phones being furiously scrolled through as three young ladies show me potential prom dresses, and flower bouquets, and hairstyles. While google is inundated with searches like, “what flower best matches hunter green,” I am made privy to the “prom-posal” that will be happening tomorrow… because SHE is going to ask HIM because “it is 2020, and I can prom-pose if I want to.” The girls giggle and politely listen to my suggestions, although their faces show they don’t really agree. Eventually, I’m phased out of the conversation, but their excitement and glee fills the room like warm sunshine, and they continue talking as I return to my stack of ungraded quizzes, quietly listening.

This week, as I navigated the newfound world of “remote teaching,” I felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness. I chalked it up to feeling stressed about what this pandemic means for my mortgage payment and other bills, but as I continued to become inundated with notifications from the multiple “Pandemic Teaching” groups I had furiously joined in an attempt to prepare for this new world of teaching, it all all really struck me.

I miss my kids. I miss their weird, angsty attitudes. I miss their awkward “too cool for everything” commentary. I miss them pretending like they think I’m a corny weirdo when I know they actually appreciate it. I miss my kids. But, here’s the hard part. They are teenagers -- not cutesy kindergartners who countdown the minutes to video chat with their teacher as she reads them a book aloud. They are teenagers -- not adorable little elementary school students who wait on their front porches with signs as their teachers drive through their neighborhoods waving. Most of my students are likely sleeping until noon, opening their chromebooks for thirty minutes a day, and playing video games until all hours of the night. They are teenagers. The strategic, subtle, tricky ways I typically go about showing my kiddos how much I care are nearly impossible to duplicate digitally.

I eat my breakfast with kids in my classroom every, single day.

I stock my back shelf with tea bags and hot chocolate for the “study hall crew” who quietly sips out of reusable mugs that they store in the back of the room, and who ALWAYS say “thank you” which is all the repayment I would ever need to keep doing it. I make sure I am in my empty classroom each day during the second period for the young ladies who NEED a private place to do their daily Tik Tok Dance because they are too embarrassed for anyone to see them… but I must not count as anyone.

I shovel my lunch in my face, so I can be back in my classroom for the seniors who come early to “spill the tea” about the newest gossip -- which is never really gossip magazine worthy, but to them seems groundbreaking.

I hide the two, stuffed mice that live on my desk (a silly gag gift from a previous graduating class) somewhere in the classroom each day for the two boys who hunt for them every, single day -- earning bragging rights for whoever finds them first.

I slyly pass out mini-lollipops in exchange for insightful comments in class -- treats you’d think were more valuable than gold -- just to see the pure happiness it brings to their faces as they unwrap their prize.

I laugh as kids race into the classroom and create their own strange version of musical chairs as they try to snag the “first-come-first-served” comfy chair that is awarded to whomever plops down in it first.

In my heart, I am that sappy teacher who wants to dole out handmade gifts, and read inspirational stories as everyone sits on a comfy rug, and hug every kid as they come into the classroom -- but that is not the life of a high school teacher. In fact, if I attempted any of that, I would get laughed out of the room. No, really. I am called “corny” at least six times a week. But, this is what makes connecting with these kids while remotely teaching so incredibly difficult. Teenagers are this strange mix of childish immaturity, angsty sassiness, and semi-adult intuition. They want all that cutesy, little-kid, super corny attention, but they refuse to admit it.

So, as I hit “submit” on my assignments this week, and responded to emails from the handful of kids who reached out to me, and made a valiant effort to post light-hearted, daily check-ins that would make us feel somewhat connected, it just because increasingly clear that my classroom cannot be duplicated on a computer.

This does not mean I won’t continue to try my best, but this week was hard. I hope this all passes soon for a multitude of reasons, but most of all… I hope this passes, so I can go back to sitting at my desk in my second home, listening to kids tell me how corny I am as they roll their eyes at me… but smile at the same time.

Here’s to (hopefully) a better Week Two...